•NRLF 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 
By 

Richard    Burton 


GIFT   OF 
Professor  Hinds 


OATEN  STOP  SERIES 

I 


DVMBINJVNE 

BY  RICHARD  BVRTON 


BOSTON  CO?ELA!SD  AND  DAV 
M  D  CCC  XCV 


U 


N 

<&< 


Jh'KlQ^l*    3X''cofM-ANb  'ACMX  DAY- 


CONTENTS 

Apology 

Dumb  in  June  Page  r 

The  City  7 

Across  the  Fields  to  Anne  9 

Of  One  Afflicted  with  Deafness  1 1 

If  We  Had  the  Time  12 

Saint  Cecilia  14 

In  a  City  Park  15 

Values  1 6 

Day  Laborers  17 

A  Potion  1 8 

Two  Mountains  19 

The  Awakening  20 

The  River  23 

The  Passing  of  the  Birds  24 

October  25 

The  Vanished  Voice  27 

Yesterday  29 

Compensation  31 

Day  and  Night  32 

Schoolboys  32 

In  the  Shadows  33 

Sea-Pictures  34 

Song  and  Singer  36 

March  Days  37 


M40792 


CONTENTS 

In  Delirium  Page  38 

Unafraid  4 1 

The  Comfort  of  the  Stars  42 
FROM  THE  GARDEN 

A  Spring  Thought  47 

Still  Days  and  Stormy  48 

Two  Roses  49 

A  Meadow  Fancy  50 

God's  Garden  5  i 

The  Flower  of  Seven  Changes  5  i 
A  GROUP  OF  SONGS 

The  First  Song  57 

Song  in  Absence  58 

A  Song  of  Meeting  59 

Song  of  the  Sea  60 

Hearth  Song  62 

Daybreak  Song  63 

A  Song  of  Life  64 
SONNETS 

The  Spirit  69 

An  Unpraised  Picture  70 

Wood  Witchery  71 

Deserted  Farms  72 

Realists  73 
BLANK  VERSE 

In  Sleep  77 

The  Lost  Atlantis  77 


CONTENTS 

Spirits  of  Summer  Page  79 

Mortis  Dignitas  '    go 

Voices  8 1 

Masks  83 

The  Bleak  o'  the  Year  85 

Early  Winter  86 

The  Inappreciable  Years  87 
The  Ultimate 


THE  LYRIC  POET'S  APOLOGY 

I  strive  to  probe  to  other  hearts,  and  find 
I  do  but  fret  the  phantom  of  mine  own} 

I  strain  to  paint  great  Nature,  and  my  mind 
But  images  itself  in  every  zone. 

The  lesson  learned,  I  sing  Life's  woven  lay 

In  syllables  of  Self,  and  can  no  other  way. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

AND  OTHER 

POEMS 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


Ah,  the  thought  hurts  at  my  heart, 

Ah,  the  thought  is  death  to  singing, 
Dumb  in  June!  to  lack  the  art, 

The  divine  deep  impulse  bringing 
Power  and  passion  in  their  train 5 
To  perceive  the  subtile  wane 

Of  the  waters  erstwhile  springing 
Buoyant,  brimful  on  the  shore; 

Ebb-tide  now  for  evermore! 
Song-tide  o'er,  no  mounting  moon 
With  her  white  lures  to  the  sea 
Surging  once  from  depths  of  me, 

Till  the  earth  and  sky  seemed  ringing 
With  the  wild  waves'  melody, 
With  their  large,  unfettered  tune; 
Dumb  in  June! 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

II 

'<  /  ".  T  •,*  Yet  by  sea  and  by  land, 

-  In*  theSwatej-wooed  marshes  or  meadows 

-  ,  «wiji e-reaching  and  bland, 
.Tiiev'suitina'.e^  is  regal  and  rich,  the  summer 

on  every  Hand 
Spills   largesses  splendid  to  mortals,   to 

women  and  men. 

For  when 
Is  the  breeze  sweeter  fraught   with  the 

breath  of  the  hay, 
Is  the  thrush-note  more  calm  or  the  robin's 

loud  lay 
More  blithe,  or  the  rose  more  the  queen 

of  the  day  ? 

Now  say, 
What  month  is  more  bounteous  in  beauties, 

in  balms, 

In  lyrics,  in  psalms, 
In  gold-heart  fair  fancies  of  sunset,  and 

calms 
Of  twilight,  or  after-glows  wondrously 

clear  ? 

One  may  hear 
The  booming  of  bees  and  the  brook's  lulled 

refrain, 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

The  stream's  liquid  epic,  the  grasshopper's 

plain, 

The  frog's  bass  reiterant  languor  at  night, 
The  day-long  and  dark-long  sound-woof, 

interplight 
AVith  dreamings  and  memories  somber  or 

bright. 

And  yet, 
Oh,  regret, 

Oh,  pain  that  is  death  doubly  keen, 
The  Goddess  of  Song  will  not  stead  me, 

al-be  she  hath  seen 
My  anguish,   my  voiceless    despair   T    the 

midst  of  the  green 
And    glorious   season   that   shimmers'  and 

sparkles  and  blows; 

Will  not  grant  me  the  boon 
Of  a  single   brief  air  that  is  born  as  the 

violet  grows 
In  the  woods,  shy-withdrawn  from  the  outer 

world's  welter  and  woes, 
To  the  sound  of  the  treetops'  dim  croon. 
I  am  dumb,  be  it  morning  or  noontide  or 

evej 
*Tis  a  thought  that  must  haunt  me  and  bid 

me  to  grieve, 

Dumb  in  June! 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

III 

A  very  miracle, 
I  saw  a  moment  gone: 
A  honeysuckle,  vine  and  bloom, 
Lustrous  green  and  coral  red, 
I  glimpsed  above  my  head 
Shedding  a  rapt  perfume. 
And  then  this  marvel  fell 

That  I  would  dwell  upon: 
A  bird — nay,  rather  say  an  airy  sprite 

Compact  of  color,  light, 
And  a  most  ravishing  power  of  flight, 
Darted  from  nowhere,  somewhere, 

And  alighted  there, 
And  sat  at  gaze  a  moment  or  twain, 
And  then  was  off  again. 
Not  Wordsworth's  cuckoo  were  a  dearer 
guest 

Unto  my  quest, 
So  insubstantial,  spirit  small 
And  fleetsome  in  his  call; 

Ah,  ye  know  well 

It  was  the  humming-bird  whereof  I  tell, 
But  there  I  drowsed,  nor  might  with  song 
commune, 

Dumb  to  this  visitant  frolicsome, 

Dumb  in  June  ! 
4 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 
IV 

This  mother-month  of  Summer  holds  her 
place 

Not  only  by  the  grace 

Attending  on  her  many  winsome  ways, — 
Her  flower-gifts,  her  bird-lays, 
Her  bridal  form  and  face, — 
But  by  what  went  before  and  cometh  after; 
April  tears,  May  blooms  and  laughter, 
September's  blazonry,  and  then  October 
Fruit-ripe  and  hushed  and  most  imperially 
sober 
With  sense  of  harvest  dignity  and  worth. 

Thus,  memory  and  expectation, 
Spring-gleams,  fruitions  of  the  fall, 
Encircle  June  and  give  unto  her  station 
A  reverend  look,  a  light  historical; 
Child,  maiden,  matron,  she  is  each  and  all: 
A  poet  must  do  her  homage — but  alas! 
The  good  days  come  and  pass, 
Therewith   the   knowledge   they  are   over 

soon, 
Yet  from  my  pipe  the  vibrancy  is  fled, 

I  may  not  music  wed, 

But  fain  must  lie  grief-stricken  in  the  grass, 
Dumb,  dumb  in  June. 


5 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


Now  cease  the  querulous  lament 
Of  weakling  discontent! 
All   things  must   by  their  living  learn  to 
know 

The  blight  of  silence,  dearth  and  snow 
That  covers  up  the  goodship  of  the  flowers. 

Our  mortal  hours 
Are  shapen  so;    perchance  when  trees  are 

bare 

And  ice-tipped  daggers  hurtle  through  the 
air 

And  death  is  everywhere, 
My  lips  shall  be  loosened  for  song,  and  the 

lyre 

Soft -touched  with  ethereal  fire 
Shall  quiver,  suspire 
Sweet    harmonies,    motions    ecstatic    and 

higher 

Than  any  the  loftiest  pitch  of  my  hope; 
Perchance  neither  snow-time  nor  rose-time 

gives  scope 

To  the  music  pent  in  me,  in  each  seeking 
soul; 

May  be  that  our  goal, 
Our  altar  for  singing  lies  elsewhere,  afar, 


THE  CITY 

In  a  dream,  in  a  star, 
And  the  slow-working  leaven 
Of   years    shall    make   mortal    immortally 
strong 

For  song, 
For  full  hymning  in  Heaven! 

May  it  be, 

May  the  summers  be  strewn 
With  hints  and  foretokens  for  heartening 

of  me 

And  hosts  of  my  brothers,  who  yearn  for 
the  voice 

Wherewith  to  rejoice, 
Yet  nathless  remain 

Year  through  and  life  through  and  ever  again 
Song  numb,  song  dumb, 
Dumb  in  June ! 


THE  CITY 

They  do  neither  plight  nor  wed 

In  the  city  of  the  dead, 

In  the  city  where  they  sleep  away  the  hours; 

But  they  lie,  while  o^er  them  range 

Winter-blight  and  summer  change, 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

And    a    hundred    happy   whisperings    of 

flowers. 

No,  they  neither  wed  nor  plight, 
And  the  day  is  like  the  night, 
For  their  vision  is  of  other  kind  than  ours. 

They  do  neither  sing  nor  sigh, 

In  that  burgh  of  by  and  by 

Where    the    streets    have  grasses  growing 

cool  and  long; 

But  they  rest  within  their  bed, 
Leaving  all  their  thoughts  unsaid, 
Deeming  silence  better  far  than  sob  or  song. 
No,  they  neither  sigh  nor  sing, 
Though  the  robin  be  a-wing, 
Though    the    leaves    of  autumn   march  a 

million  strong. 

There  is  only  rest  and  peace 

In  the  City  of  Surcease 

From  the  failings  and  the  wailings  'neath 

the  sun, 

And  the  wings  of  the  swift  years 
Beat  but  gently  o'er  the  biers, 
Making  music  to  the  sleepers  every  one. 
There  is  only  peace  and  rest; 


8 


ACROSS  THE  FIELDS  TO  ANNE 

But  to  them  it  seemeth  best, 
For  they  lie  at  ease  and  know  that  life  is 
done. 


ACROSS  THE  FIELDS  TO  ANNE 

From  Stratford-on-Avon  a  lane  runs  westward  through 
the  fields  a  mile  to  the  little  village  of  Shottery,  in  which 
is  the  cottage  of  Anne  Hathaway,  Shakspere's  sweetheart 
and  wife. 

How  often  in  the  summer-tide, 

His  graver  business  set  aside, 

Has  stripling  Will,  the  thoughtful-eyed, 

As  to  the  pipe  of  Pan 

Stepped  blithesomely  with  lover's  pride 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne! 

It  must  have  been  a  merry  mile, 

This  summer  stroll  by  hedge  and  stile, 

With  sweet  foreknowledge  all  the  while 

How  sure  the  pathway  ran 

To  dear  delights  of  kiss  and  smile, 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  silly  sheep  that  graze  to-day, 
I  wot,  they  let  him  go  his  way, 
Nor  once  looked  up,  as  who  should  say: 

9 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

"  It  is  a  seemly  man." 

For  many  lads  went  wooing  aye 

Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

The  oaks,  they  have  a  wiser  look} 
Mayhap  they  whispered  to  the  brook: 
"The  world  by  him  shall  yet  be  shook, 
It  is  in  nature's  plan 5 
Though  now  he  fleets  like  any  rook 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne." 

And  I  am  sure,  that  on  some  hour 
Coquetting  soft  'twixt  sun  and  shower, 
He  stooped  and  broke  a  daisy-flower 
\Vith  heart  of  tiny  span, 
And  bore  it  as  a  lover's  dower 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne. 

While  from  her  cottage  garden-bed 
She  plucked  a  jasmine's  goodlihede, 
To  scent  his  jerkin's  brown  instead; 
Now  since  that  love  began, 
What  luckier  swain  than  he  who  sped 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne  ? 

The  winding  path  whereon  I  pace, 

The  hedgerows  green,  the  summer's  grace, 


OF  ONE  AFFLICTED  WITH 

Are  still  before  me  face  to  face; 
Methinks  I  almost  can 
Turn  poet  and  join  the  singing  race 
Across  the  fields  to  Anne! 


OF    ONE    AFFLICTED    WITH 
DEAFNESS 

She  moves  about  the  house  with  meek  con 
tent, 

Her  face  is  like  a  psalm  from  other  years; 
She  only  guesses  half  of  what  is  meant, 

But  hides  her  impotence,her  natural  tears. 

Whenso  we  gather  close  for  jest  or  tale 
She  shuns  the  circle,  lest  it  fret  our  mood 

To  raise  our  voices  till  our  joyance  fail; 
She  sits  apart  in  patient  quietude. 

And  though  we  try  to  make  her  lot  more 

bright, 
To  set  her  in  our  midst  and  show  her 

love 
(For    she    is  lovesome),   yet  few  glimpse 

aright 
Her  desolation  and  the  cross  thereof. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

Dear  God,  may  recompense  be  hers  from 

Thee; 
May  melodies  from   days  gone  by  come 

back 
To  fill  her  silence,  and  a  symphony 

Played  soft,  of  angels,  soothe  her  sorry 
lack, 

That,  while  she  sits  and  makes  no  least 
demur, 

Left  much  to  loneliness  and  forced  apart, 
She  have  companionship  to  comfort  her, 

And  hear  a  constant  singing  in  her  heart. 


IF  WE  HAD   THE  TIME 

If  I  had  the  time  to  find  a  place 
And  sit  me  down  full  face  to  face 

With  my  better  self,  that  cannot  show 
In  my  daily  life  that  rushes  so: 
It  might  be  then  I  would  see  my  soul 
Was    stumbling    still    toward  the    shining 
goal,  ^ 

I  might  be  nerved  by  the  thought  sub 
lime,  — 

If  I  had  the  time! 


12 


IF  WE  HAD  THE  TIME 

If  I  had  the  time  to  let  my  heart 
Speak  out  and  take  in  my  life  a  part, 

To  look  about  and  to  stretch  a  hand 
To  a  comrade  quartered  in  no-luck 

land; 

Ah,  God!  If  I  might  but  just  sit  still 
And  hear  the  note  of  the  whip-poor-will, 
I    think    that    my   wish    with    God's 
would  rhyme  — 

If  I  had  the  time! 

If  I  had  the  time  to  learn  from  you 
How  much  for  comfort  my  word  could  do; 
And   I  told  you  then  of  my  sudden 

will 

To  kiss  your  feet  when  I  did  you  ill} 
If  the  tears  aback  of  the  coldness  feigned 
Could    flow,   and    the   wrong    be    quite 
explained,  — 

Brothers,  the    souls    of  us  all  would 
chime, 

If  we  had  the  time! 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


SAINT  CECILIA 

A  woman  with  a  charmed  hand 

To  wake  sweet  music,  —  yea,  a  saint 

Whose  home  is  in  the  mystic  land 
Where  poets  sing  and  painters  paint. 

She  wears  a  soft  and  Old-World  grace, 
Her  eyes  are  large  with  revery; 

Her  solemn  organ  fills  the  place 

With  sounds  that  set  the  spirit  free. 

The  lily  is  her  flower,  and  meek 
Her  look  is,  as  the  flower's  own; 

She  hath  no  color  in  her  cheek, 
One  thinks  of  her  as  oft  alone. 

Rubens  once  wrought  her,  playing  there, 
And  made  her  beautiful,  yet  missed 

The  holiness,  the  pensive  air 

Of  one  whose  face  high  heaven  has  kissed. 

And  Carlo  Dolci  tried,  nor  failed: 
Cecilia  sits  and  plays,  and  seems 

A  saint  whose  soul  is  unassailed, 
And  yet  the  woman  of  our  dreams! 


IN  A  CITY  PARK 


IN  A  CITY  PARK 

A  stretch  of  lawn  as  smooth  as  happiness, 
And  tender  green  withal,    and  dappled 

o'er 
With    shadows    that    the     birches     throw, 

unless 
A  maple  here  and  there  throws  shadows 

more. 

Beyond,  the  houses,  spires,  toilings,  din, 
And  all  that  makes  a  cityful  of  sin. 

And  yet  the  sun's  ashine,  and,   somehow, 

from 
This  common  scene,  that 's  trying  to  be 

fair, 

There's  something  rises  in  the  city's  hum, 
There's  something    brooding    o'er  the 

smoke  and  blare, 
That  makes  the  place  and  time  and  people 

seem 
A  beauty,  and  a  promise,  and  a  dream. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


VALUES 

I  make  apprisal  of  the  maiden  moon 

For  what  she  is  to  me: 
Not  a  great  globe  of  cheerless  stone 
That  hangs  in  awful  space  alone, 

And  ever  so  to  be; 
But  just  the  rarest  orb, 
The  very  fairest  orb, 
The  star  most  lovely-wise 
In  all  the  dear  night-skies! 

So  thou  to  me,  O  jestful  girl  of  June! 

I  have  no  will  to  hear 
Cold  calculations  of  thy  worth 
Summed  up  in  beauty,  brain,  and  birth: 

Such  coldly  strike  mine  ear. 
Thou  art  the  rarest  one, 
The  very  fairest  one, 
The  soul  most  lovely-wise 
That  ever  looked  through  eyes! 


16 


DAY  LABORERS 


DAY  LABORERS 

They  straggle  down  the  street}  the  morn 
ing  light 
Is  on  their  shiftless  steps,  their  shoulders 

bentj 
They  work  with  sinews  lame  —  a  grievous 

sight 

Of  waning  strength,  of  hope  and  courage 
spent. 

It  seems  sardonic  thus  to  set  them  here, 
Old  men  and  weary,  in  the  day's  fresh 

hour. 
What  solace  can  be  theirs,  what  sense  of 

cheer, 

What  puissant  thought,  what  dream  of 
transient  power  ? 

Few  sadder  things  on  earth  than  toilsome 

age 

Without  its  dignities,  its  honored  hairsj 
A  time  of  vacant  mind  and  vassalage 

Before  the  last  grim  change  from  mortal 
cares. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

And  yet  one  benison  the  pilgrims  know: 
For  mother-church  receives  them,  makes 

them  glad 

With  pomps  and  promises,  yea,  sets  aglow 
These  human  hearts  the  sorry  week-long 
sad. 

And  I  can  bless  her  reverend  ways  and  wise 
(Although  in  other  symbols  I  am  bred), 

Since  she  doth  wipe  the  tears  from  piteous 

eyes 
And  leaveth  not  the  poor  uncomforted. 


A  POTION 

How  brew  the  brave  drink  Life  ? 

Take  of  the  herb  hight  morning-joy, 
Take  of  the  herb  hight  evening-rest, 

Pour  in  pain  lest  bliss  should  cloy, 
Shake  in  sin  to  give  it  zest; 
Brew  them  all  in  the  heat  of  noon, 
Cool  the  broth  beneath  the  moon; 
Then  down  with  the  brave  drink  Life! 


18 


TWO  MOUNTAINS 


TWO  MOUNTAINS 

Monadnock  looms  against   the   pale   blue 

dome 
Of   sky,   a    monarch    crowned  with  cloud 

and  sun; 
Massive    the    moods    of    this    rock-ribbed 

one 
In   ways   of   God    that    seemeth    most    at 

home; 

An  archetypal  art  those  contours  made, 
An  elemental  brush  the  colors  laid. 

Type   of  New  England,   creature   of  her 

womb, 

Rugged  yet  beautiful,  thy  fearless  front 
Preaches  old  freedom,  and  her  sturdy  wont 
And  purity  and  faith  and  living-roomj 
Fore-elder,  thou,  of  simpler,  saner  days 
When  God  meant  prayer  and  Fatherland 

meant  praise. 

So  Emerson,  whose  land  was  made  to  thee 
In  words  of  bardic  wonder,  was  a  peak 
Sprung  from  the  same  dear  soil,  and  fain  to 
speak 

19 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

Faced  skyward  towards  the  heavens'  clarity; 
The  same  New  England  gave  him  goodly 

birth, 
The   same   large  mood,  the  same   untired 

earth. 

Anak  of  hills  that  take  the  questing  eye, 
Great  dominant  thing  in  all  this  landscape 

wide, 
'Twas  meet  that  thou    shouldst  thus    be 

magnified 
By  him,  that  strength  to  strength  should 

make  reply: 

Monadnock,  moveless,  whatsoe'er  the  wind, 
Like  Emerson  midst  shifts  of  humankind. 


THE  AWAKENING 

The  beauties  of  the  world  do  master  me: 
They  put  my  soul  in  such  a  heavy  swoon 

I  may  not  sing  of  half  the  love  I  see 

Beneath  the  sun,  beneath  the  lady  moon. 

Love,  wake   me  from    this    languor  deep, 
that  I 

May  truly  sing  of  beauty  ere  I  die. 


20 


THE  AWAKENING 

Wake  me  by  bending  down  thy  dreamful 

face 
And    touching    lips    to    mine    swoon- 

bounden;  then 

My  soul  shall  leap  and  quiver  in  its  place, 

And  I  shall  turn  the  mightiest  of  men, 

A  master  there,  with  Earth  and  Sky  my 

slave, 
Because  of  that  one  kiss  my  mistress  gave. 

Day's  sweetest  flower  shall  witness  to  me 

make, 

Night's  boldest  star  send  messages  of  fire, 
And  all  the  birds  that  be,  for  love's  sole 

sake, 

Shall  quicken  wing  to  come  at  my  desire; 
While  hearts  of  humankind  hot-beating, 

cold, 

Draw  nigh  and  house  with  me  till  days  are 
old. 

The  morning's  challenge  in  the  changeful 
east  — 

A  challenge  to  the  hreart  to  live  anew  — 
Shall  steal  into  whatever  words  the  least 

My  song  shall  fashion  tenderly  and  true. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

The  wonder  of  the  sundown  in  the  west 
Shall  shine  again,  and  so  be  twice  expressed. 

The  sweetest  sounds  of  music  shall  unite 
My  dreams  to  sister-dreams,  as  rosaries 
Of  carven  beads  are  set  and  strung  aright 
Upon    some    silken    cord    sad    nuns   to 

please: 
Each  lovesome  thought  shall  find  a  liquid 

sound, 
And  Love  be  doubly  Love  so  set  around. 

The  open  fields  shall  offer  honest  cheer, 
The  woods,   wind-shaken,   sing    a  wel 
come-song, 

And  every  wight  who  haunts  the  wood 
lands  dear 
Shall  rate  me  as  a  mate  to  shield  from 

wrong. 

The  sea  the  secret  of  his  monotone, 
An  age-old  thing,  to  me  will  tell  alone. 

Such  powers   shall  be   mine  because  you 

came 

And  kissed  me  oncej  whereat  the  deep 
est  bliss 


THE  RIVER 

That  ever  mortal  knew  ran  swift  aflame 
Straight  to  my  soul,  and  taught  me  only 

this: 

To  step  into  the  very  deep  of  Love 
And  make  my  nest  and  sing  the  joy  thereof. 


THE  RIVER 

There  was  a  mighty  river  that  I  knew 
In  time  long-by;  it  made  me  hold  my 

breath 
To  watch  its  wondrous  ways  —  so  wide  it 

grew, 

So  plain  the  darker  eddies  spoke  of  death, 
The  lads  that  dared  to  swim  it  were  so  few ! 

Man    grown,    to-day   I    muse    the  stream 

beside, 
And    smile,    remembering  —  for    'tis  a 

span 

And  nothing  more  to  reach  across  its  tide, 
While  in  the  blackest  pools  your  eye  may 

scan 

The  bottom,  where  the  minnows  hunt  and 
hide. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

Mayhap  the  rivers  will  not  shrink  to  streams, 
In  that  dim  land  that  lies  beyond  our  dreams. 


THE  PASSING  OF  THE  BIRDS 

From  out  the  heart  of  an  autumnal  day 
A  sound  unwonted  took  the  listening  ear  j 

At  first  dim  in  the  sky  and  far  away, 
But  ever  waxing  louder  and  more  clear. 

And  then  a  mighty  shadow  seemed  to  come 

Between  the  sun  and  me,  and  all  the  air 

Shook  vibrantly,  gave  forth  a  grave,  great 

hum, 

Till  heaven  became  a  populous  thorough 
fare 

Of  strenuous  wings  that  beat  the  blue  in 

timej 

Birds  numberless,  yet  one  in  joy  of  flight 
And  the  desire  to  make  a  warmer  clime 
Wherein    to    mate    and    nest  and    have 
delight. 

A  hundred  wind-harps  played  in  unison 
Their  passing  was,  a  sight  of  buoyancy 

24 


OCTOBER 


Beyond  us  earthlings;  of  my  memories,  one 
Most    fraught   with    sense    of  fetterless 
grace  and  glee. 


OCTOBER 

Now  is  the  world  a-muse,  and  earth  and  Sky 

Are  in  a  pact  of  uttermost  content; 
Pan's  mood  is  pensive,  Beauty  passes  by 
With    steps  loath-lingering  and   all  be 
sprent 

With  colors  o'er  her  garments  of  Delight, 
Along  the   stream    and  up  the    mountain 
height. 

The  shocks  of  corn  stand  ghostly  gray  a-row, 
Weird  Indian  chiefs  who  brood  on  tribal 

wrongs 
And  ultimate  requital;  all  aglow 

Is   every  swamp  with    maples,   and  the 

songs 

Of  crickets  blend  in  most  harmonious  wise 
Into  the  azure  landscape's  dreams  and  dyas. 

The  yellowing    birches   and  the    elms  do 
make 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

The    road    a    slumbrous    way    through 

wonderland^ 
The  sumach  startles  you  to  wide-awake, 

So  vivid  is  her  crimson;  nigh  at  hand 
Or  far  afield  the  dog-wood  burns,  and  fills 
With  witchery  of  garnet  wolds  and  hills. 

Like  fire  the  huckleberry  vines  across 

The  meadows  run;  soft  sleep  the  gray 

old  stones, 

The  fences  in  their  eld  of  time  and  moss, 
Save  when  all-blazoned  by  the  clambering 

zones 

Of  woodbine,  magical  for  shaded  reds: 
Hard  by  the  asters  lift  their  bloomy  heads. 

Beside  bronzed  oaks  the    fruity  chestnuts 

drop 
Their  glossy  burthens    down,   a  sylvan 

scene; 
Granges  innumerable  groan  as  crop 

On  crop  is  gathered  in;  the  air  is  keen 
With  scent  of  smoke,  the  pied  leaves  fall 

to  earth 
In  ruddy  troops,  for  burial  and  rebirth. 


26 


THE  VANISHED  VOICE 

O  splendid  beauty  of  the  day!    O  eve 

Made  luminous  by  the  punctual  harvest 

moon, 

The  sun's  close  comrade!  weave  and  inter 
weave 
Your  changes,  for  the  season  shifts  o'er- 

soon, 

Evanishing  while  still  we  deem  it  here; 
Such  transient  loveliness  is  twofold  dear. 

Now  is  the  year's  recessional;  for  though 
Her  robes  are  richer-wrought  than  in  the 

spring, 

What  time  the  proud  procession  paced  slow 
Up  the  vast  church  of  Nature's  fashion 
ing* 
Soon  moans  —  these  pulsing  pomps  left  far 

behind  — 
Down  unillumined  aisles  the  requiem  wind. 


THE  VANISHED  VOICE 

There  stood  a  tree  beside  his   boyhood's 

door 
That  faced  the  west  and  often,  just  before 


27 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

The    sundown,   seemed    transfigured    with 

the  light 

That  flooded  in  and  keen  upon  his  sight 
Burned  images  of  flame.      And  from  the 

tree 

Fluted  a  nameless  bird  so  goldenly 
He  seemed' part  of  the  sunset  and  the  sky. 

The  listener  has  listened  for  that  cry 
Of  love  and  longing  many  a  weary  time 
And  heard  it  never,  nor  can  mortal  rhyme 
Encompass    all    its    sweetness:    could    the 

place, 

The  homely  homestead  and  the  subtle  grace 
Of  youth  return,  the  magic  moment  when 
The  western  sun  shows  heaven  to  earth- 
doomed  men, 
But   transiently,    perchance    the    chanting 

bird 

Would  be  there  too,  perchance  his  voice 
were  heard. 

The  listener  listens  vainly;  song  is  rife 
Still  in  the  world,  still  love  illumines  lifej 
But  he  would  give  the  all  of  after  years, 
Its  triumphs,  wisdoms,  and  revealing  tears, 


YESTERDAY 

To  list  that  little  bird-soul  from  its  nesfe 
Leap  into  lyric  rapture,  sink  to  rest, 
Youth  in  the  air  and  sunset  in  the  west. 


YESTERDAY 

My  friend,  he  spoke  of  a  woman  face} 
It  puzzled  me,  and  I  paused  to  think. 

He  told  of  her  eyes  and  mouth,  the  trace 
Of  prayer  on  her  brow,   and   quick  as 
wink 

I  said:   "  Oh  yes,  but  you  wrong  her  years. 

She's  only  a  child,  with  faiths  and  fears 
That  childhood  fit.    I  tell  thee  nayj 
She  was  a  girl  just  yesterday.'" 

"The  years  are  swift  and  sure,  I  trow  " 
(Quoth  he).     "You    speak    of  the    long 
ago." 

Once  I  strolled  in  a  garden  spot, 
And  every  flower  upraised  a  head 

(So  it  seemed),  for  they,  I  wot, 

Were  mates  of  mine;  each  bloom  and 
bed, 

Their  hours  for  sleep,  their  merry  mood, 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

The  lives  and  deaths  of  the  whole  sweet 

brood, 

Were  known  to  me;  it  was  my  way 
To  visit  them  but  yesterday. 

Spake  one  red  rose,  in  a  language  low: 
"  We  saw  you  last  in  the  long  ago." 

Entering  under  the  lintel  wide, 

I  saw  the  room;   't  was  all  the  same: 
The  oaken  press  and  the  shelves  aside, 

The  window  small  for  the  sunset  flame, 
The  book  I  loved  on  the  table  large; 
I  ope'd,  and  lo!  in  the  yellow  marge 

The  leaf  I  placed  was  shrunk  and  gray. 

I  swear  it  was  green  but  yesterday! 

Then  a  voice  stole  out  of  the  sunset  glow: 
"  You  lived  here,  man,  in  the  long  ago." 

'T  is  the  same  old  tale,  though  it  comes  to 

me 

By  a  hundred  paths  of  pain  and  glee, 
Till  I  guess  the  truth  at  last,  and  know 
That  Yesterday  is  the  Long  Ago. 


30 


COMPENSATION 


COMPENSATION 

Within  the  desert,  cowled  and  vigil-worn, 
The  eremite  in  prayer  and  fasting  bides; 

All  world-delights  his  holy  thinkings  scorn: 
The  Book,  the  crucifix,  his  only  guides. 

But  on  a  morn  when  flamed  the  rising  sun 
And  scared  the  panther  from  the  open 

plain, 

The  eremite,  his  night-time  watching  done, 
Broke  bread,  and  would  his  missal  con 
again. 

Then  came  a  thought  and  slunk  into  his 

mind, 
Compounded  half  of  lust    and    half  of 

hate; 
And    for  an  hour    his   soul  was  sick  and 

blind, 
And  he  a  worldling  moaning  at  his  fate. 

While  in  a  city's  most  unholy  place, 

There  came  unto  a  knave,  a  tippling  clod, 

A  thought  as  tender  as  a  child's  small  face, 
And  white  as  is  the  vestiture  of  God. 

3* 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


DAY  AND  NIGHT 

The  day  is  a  fair  young  hind, 

Gracile,  with  life  athrill; 
She  comes  on  feet  of  the  wind 

When  the  light  leaps  over  the  hill. 

The  night  is  a  huge  black  hound 
As  foul  as  the  hind  is  fair, 

And  he  hunts  her  beauty  to  ground 
Till  the  morning  sun  cries  Ware'. 


SCHOOLBOYS 

I  could  wish  that  death  might  come 
Like  the  respite  to  a  task, 

Or  a  holiday  hard-won. 

Life's  long  schooling  burdensome 
Over  now,  so  we  may  bask 

In  a  sense  of  duty  done} 

In  a  sense  of  freedom  wide 

Opening  out  on  every  side. 

Like  to  lads,  who  count  the  days 
To  the  glad  vacation  time, 


IN  THE  SHADOWS 

While  their  hearts  go  truanting; 
Though  they  walk  appointed  ways 
Duteously,  the  home-bells  chime 
In  their  ears,  the  home-birds  sing, 
And  they  hear  their  cronies  call 
To  some  game  or  festival. 


IN  THE  SHADOWS 

As  the  shadows  filled  the  room  with  peace, 
We  spoke  of  our  absent  friends: 

How  some  were  dead  and  some  were  sped 
To  the  far-away  earth  ends. 

And  by  some  magic  of  yearning  hearts, 
T'he  lost  seemed  warm  and  near; 

Yea,  loved  so  much  we  could  almost  touch 
Their  hands  and  feel  them  here. 

And  when  the  lamps  were  lit,  and  speech 

Waxed  merrier,  yet  the  place 
Felt  strangely  bare,  and  each  one  there 

Missed  some  beloved  face. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


SEA-PICTURES 

FAR    NIENTE 

Soft  languors  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 
A  blissful  swoon  that  takes  the  sense  in 
thrall; 

My  hopes  are  dead,  my  memory  is  asleep, 
I  only  lie  and  watch  the  waters  fall 

And  lift,  and  let  my  tired  spirit  steep 
In  sun  and  sea,  as  happy  as  a  hound 
That  lazes  on  a  plot  of  grassy  ground; 

Until  the  dim    night    shadows    come   and 

creep 
Between  the  day  and  me,  and  end  it  all. 

NIGHT    NOISES 

No  voice  of  crickets  wearing  through  the 

night 
From   skeins  of  dew  in  scented  summer 

fields; 
No  sleep-time  chirp  of  birds,  no  tree  that 

yields 
A  solemn  sigh  when  touched   by   breezes 

light. 
Instead,  a  throb  of  engines  in  their  might, 

34 


SEA-PICTURES 

The  scurrying  seamen  with  their  weird 

Yo-ho  I 
The   creak    of  ropes,  the  lapping  of  sad 

waves, 

That  seem  to  grieve  above  forgotten  graves, 
And  gossip  on  lost  ships  of  long  ago. 

OFF    THE    HAVEN 

Up  stole  a  fog,  a  chill  and  ghastly  thing, 
That  gloomed  the  sea  and  hid  her  face 

from  me; 

My  soul  was  like  a  bird  with  broken  wing; 
A    dismal    bell    warned    homing    barks 
away. 

Then    shot    a    sun-shaft;    like  a  phantom 

host, 
Born   of  the  night  and  mailed  in  sullen 

white, 

The  riven  mists  drew  off  and  lo!  the  coast 
Lay  green  and  glad  beyond  the  waters 
gray. 


35 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


SONG  AND  SINGER 

I    saw  him    once,   the  while    he    sat  and 

played  — 

A  stripling  with  a  shock  of  yellow  hair  — 
Hi*  own  rare    songs,  in  mirth  or  sorrow 

made, 

But  tender  all,  and  fair. 

And  as  the  years  rolled  by  I  saw  him  not, 
But  still  his  songs  full  many  a  time  I  sung, 
And  thought  of  him  as  one  who  has  the  lot 
To  be  forever  young. 

Until  at  last  he  stood  before  mine  eyes 
An  age-bent  man,  who  trembled  o'er  his 

staff} 

My  sight  rebelled  to  see  him  in  such  guise, 
Ripe  for  his  epitaph. 

I  grieved  with  grief  that  to  a  death  belongs? 
How  Time  is  stern  I  had  forgot,  in  truth, 
And  how  that  men  wax  old,  whereas  their 
songs 

Keep  an  immortal  youth. 


MARCH  DAYS 

MARCH  DAYS 

I 

The  world  to-day  is  a  nun  in  gray, 
And  the  wind  is  her  wailing  prayer 

To  God,  to  give  her  a  soul  like  May, 
Flower-sweet,  white,  and  fair. 

II 

Still  as  a  lake  at  even  is  the  air; 

The  heavens  are  hid;  I  mark  not  any 
where 

A  hopeful  sign  hung  out  by  plain  or  hill; 
Only  the  etched  brown  trees  and  barren 
fields  are  there. 

How  like  a  madman's  dream  the  thought 

of  June! 
Shall  this  warped    pipe  e'er  swell  with 

some  soft  tune 
That  calls  for  liquid  stops  and  languorous 

skill, 

The  piper  lying  prone  beneath  a  summer 
moon  ? 


37 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


III 

The  mystery 
And  magic  of  the  spring! 
It  seizes  on  this  bleak  and  sullen  thing 

Called  March,  and  see! 
Bland  skies,  faint  odors  as  of  slumbering 
flowers, 

Faint  bird  songs  in  the  bowers, 
A    soft    south  wind,   and,   cradled    in  the 
wood, 

As  sweet  as  womanhood, 
As  shy  as  any  maiden  lured  by  love, 
The  dimly  flushed  arbutus  bloom  above 
The  harsh  earth  soon  will  peer. 
And  April  airs  be  here! 


IN  DELIRIUM 

Lying  in  delirium, 
Fancies  strange  do  flockwise  come; 
Happy  thoughts  and  bitter  some. 

Now  I  rest  on  azure  seas 

Bathed  in  light,  and  hear  the  wail 


IN  DELIRIUM 


Of  the  waves,  and  seem  to  feel 
Languid  lappings  at  the  keel 
Of  my  boat,  the  while  a  breeze 
Pushes  gently  at  the  sail. 

Now  I  grope  through  rayless  mines 
Searching  for  a  gem  whose  beam 
I  may  use  to  guide  me  fair 
To  the  upper  world  of  airj 
Search  in  vain  for  any  signs 
Of  its  heart  of  fiery  gleam. 

Now,  again,  I  toss  among 

Clouds  that  are  with  thunders  charged} 
There  amid  the  elements 
All  my  soul  and  all  my  sense 
Seems  heroic  grown,  my  tongue 

Touched  with  fire,  my  life  enlarged. 

I  am  borne  unto  a  place 
Like  a  paradise  for  flowers, 
Shade  and  sun,  to  hear  aloft 
Dreamy  songs  and  snatches  soft, 
While  below,  a  mystic  bass 

Chants  with  measured  beat  the  hours. 


39 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


I  am  in  the  daylit  street 
Of  a  city,  and  my  hand 
Suddenly  is  grasped  by  one 
On  whose  grave  the  snow  and  sun 
Years  and  years  have  blown  and  beat 
Since  he  sought  the  Silent  Land. 

But  to  one  strange  spot  I  must 
E'er  return,  and  ever  find 

What  must  always  bring  to  me 
Lack  of  ease,  and  agony, 
Till  the  day  that  I  am  dust, 
All  my  anguish  left  behind. 

This  it  is:  I  see  my  love 

Holding  forth  beseeching  arms, 
'Tired  in  white,  and  near  as  wan 
As  the  robe  she  rests  upon; 
See  a  fearful  storm  above 

Swooping  swift,  and  big  with  harms. 

Yet  I  may  not  move,  nor  go 
One  sweet  step  to  comfort  herj 
Chains  are  on  me,  till  I  cry: 
Let  me  fret ,  or  let  me  die  ! 


40 


UNAFRAID 


God,  the  white  face  begging  so! 
God,  my  limbs  that  iiiay  not  stir! 

Lying  in  delirium, 
Fancies  strange  do  flockwise  comej 
Happy  thoughts  and  bitter  some. 


UNAFRAID 

A  dialect  beyond  our  ken, 

The  accents  of  an  unknown  tongue, 
Life  speaks,  — this  world  of  passing  men 
That  is  incomparably  old 
And  sad  with  sinning  manifold, 

Yet,  with    each    morning,    sweet    and 
young. 

Yea,  sweet  and  young  it  is,  and  plain 
Its  meaning, —  for  a  girl's  light  breath 

Outwits  the  wisdom  that  has  lain 

Long  centuries  stored  in  reverend  books. 

They  doubt  and  dream}  she,  by  her  looks, 
Laughs  down  the  Ke  of  churlish  death. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  STARS 

When  I  am  overmatched  by  petty  cares 
And  things  of  earth    loom    large,   and 

look  to  be 
Of  moment,  how  it  soothes  and  comforts 

me 
To  step  into  the  night  and  feel  the  airs 

Of  heaven  fan  my  cheek;  and,  best  of  all, 
Gaze  up  into  those  all-uncharted  seas 
Where  swim  the  stately  planets:   such  as 
these 

Make  mortal  fret  seem  slight  and  temporal. 

I  muse  on  what  of  Life  may  stir  among 
Those  spaces  knowing  naught  of  metes 

nor  bars; 
Undreamed-of  dramas  played  in  outmost 

stars, 
And  lyrics  by  archangels  grandly  sung. 

I  grow  familiar  with  the  solar  runes 

And  comprehend  of  worlds  the  mystic 
birth: 


THE  COMFORT  OF  THE  STARS 


Ringed  Saturn,  Mars,  whose  fashion  apes 

the  earth, 
And  Jupiter,  the  giant,  with  his  moons. 

Then,   dizzy  with    the  unspeakable  sights 

above, 
Rebuked    by   Vast    on    Vast,   my  puny 

heart 

Is  greatened  for  its  transitory  part, 
My  trouble  merged  in  wonder  and  in  love. 


43 


FROM  THE  GARDEN 


A  SPRING  THOUGHT 

In  the  spring  I  have  leaned  me  full  close  to 

the  bark  of  a  tree, 
To  know  if  its  heart  were  athrob  with  spring 

passion  and  glee, 
And  found  that  its  longing  was  like  to  the 

longing  in  me. 

In  the  spring  I  have  bent  to  the  odorous  lips 

of  a  rose, 
Await  for  the  summer  her  virginal  heart  to 

unclose, 
And  found  her  full  fain  of  the  spring-tide 

that  blossoms  and  blows. 

In  the  spring  I  have  harked  to  the  bounti 
ful  song  of  a  bird 

Outbreathing  his  joyance  as  plainly  as  ever 
man  heard, 

Albeit  his  bliss  be  not  caught  in  a  crystal 
line  word. 

And  so,  when  they  tell  me  the  bird-song, 
the  rose,  and  the  beat 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

In  the  turbulent  heart  of  the  tree  are  sense 
less  though  sweet 

Revealments  of  nature,  spring-stirred  by  the 
spirit  of  heat, 

I  laugh  in  my  heart  as  one  laugheth  who 

knoweth  the  best; 
And  never  I  trust  to  such  testaments  cold, 

but  I  rest 
In  the  secrets  the  bird  and  the  rose  and  the 

tree  have  confessed. 


II 

STILL  DAYS  AND  STORMY 

Yesterday  the  wind  blew 
Down  the  garden  walks: 

Marigolds,  the  day  through, 
Trembled  on  their  stalks. 

But  to-day  the  wind  '  s  dead, 

Marigolds  are  still: 
Miss  they  what  the  wind  said, 

Do  they  take  it  ill  ? 

48 


TWO  ROSES 

Yesterday  my  love  stood 
Hearkening  to  me; 

Fair  flower  of  womanhood, 
All  a-tremble  she. 

But  to-day  she  's  sad,  still, 
Makes  no  true-love  sign: 

Is  her  lover  to  her  will, 
Is  she  yet  mine  ? 


Ill 
TWO  ROSES 

A  wild  rose  spake  to  a  city  rose: 

"  How  sad  is  your  lot,  your  life! 
You  miss  the  kiss  of  the  wind  that  blows 
In  the  open  field,  where  the  glad  stream 

flows, 
And  the  days  with  summer  rife." 

The  city  flower  softly  smiled, 

For  she  knew  what  things  are  best: 


49 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

"  How  little  you  dream  of  love,  poor 

child! 
What  time  you  are  out  in  the  tempest 

wild, 
I  sleep  on  my  lady's  breast." 


IV 
A  MEADOW  FANCY 

In  the  meadows  yonder  the  winged  wind 
Makes  billows  along  the  grain; 

With  their   sequence  swift   they  bring  to 

mind 
The  swash  of  the  open  main, 

Till  I  smell  the  pungent  brine,  and  hear  — 
Mine  eyes  grown  dim  —  the  cry 

Of  the  sailor  lads,  and  feel  vague  fear 
Of  the  storm-wrack  in  the  sky. 


GOD'S  GARDEN 

V 
GOD'S  GARDEN 

The  years  are  flowers  and  bloom  within 

Eternity's  wide  garden; 
The  rose  for  joy,  the  thorn  for  sin, 

The  gardener  God,  to  pardon 
All  wilding  growths,  to  prune,  reclaim, 
And  make  them  rose-like  in  His  name. 


VI 

THE   FLOWER    OF  SEVEN 
CHANGES 

(The  hydrangea  is  so  called  by  the  Japanese.) 

At  first,  in  early  days 
Of  summer-time,  a  blossoming  of  blooms 
Rich-tinted,  delicate-dyed,  as  if  the  looms 

That  wove  it  whirled  in   chambers  dim 

with  haze, 
In  secretest  fair  rooms 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

Of  wonder  and  delight  and  rare  designs, 
Wrought   marvelous    in    hues    and    lovely 
lines. 

And  then  bland  hours,  wherein 
The  pink  grows  into  purple,  fades  to  flame 
Likest  to  fire,  yet  never  twice  the  same; 

Some  petals  white  as  love,  some  swart  as 

sin, 

Subtle,  inconstant,  luring  human  eyes 
By  soft  evanishment  and  slow  surprise. 

Thereto  a  somber  mood 
Of    duns    and    smoke-touched    textures, 

dreamy  glints, 
With  here  and  there,  for  memory,  warmer 

hints 

Of  rose,  or  sunset  yellow's  quietude. 
This  is  her  season  of  most  calm  release 
From    mid-June  passion;    it  is  large  with 
peace. 

Follows  thereon  a  spell 
Of  wraith-like  flowers,  aspen-thin  and  pale, 
Inwove  with  autumn  reveries,  the  wail 

Of  wind  in  leafless  boughs  a  fitting  knell 


THE  FLOWER  OF  SEVEN 

Above  her  sometime  splendor;  yet  a  sight 
Ineffably  harmonious,  vaguely  bright. 

And  last,  a  death  so  still 
And  all  unviolent,  you  scarcewise  miss 
The  presence  by  the  door,  nor  reckon  this 

A  perished  beauty  and  a  thwarted  will. 
Nor  is  it:  with  the  spring,  behold  her  here, 
Protean,  vital  in  the  vernal  year! 


A  GROUP  OF  SONGS 


THE  FIRST  SONG 

A  poet  writ  a  song  of  May 

That  checked  his  breath  awhile; 

He  kept  it  for  a  summer  day, 
Then  spake  with  half  a  smile: 

"Oh,  little  song  of  purity, 

Of  mystic  to-and-fro, 
You  are  so  much  a  part  of  me 

I  dare  not  let  you  go." 

And  so  he  made  a  sister-song 
With  more  of  cunning  art; 

But  held  the  first  his  whole  life  long 
Deep  hidden  in  his  heart. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

II 
SONG  IN  ABSENCE 

As  a  poet's  rhyme-word   looks  and   loving 

leans 
To  the  sister  rhyme-word,  set  in  the  line 

below, 
My  heart,  in  the  late  sun's  blaze,  in  her 

yellow  sheens, 
To  you  would  leaping  go. 

As  a  miner  delves  in  the  cool  and  dew- 
drained  earth 

For  the  gold  to  grace  his  lady' s  loveliness, 
My  dreamings  delve  thy  soul  to  know  its 

worth 
And  doubt  the  angels  less. 

As  a  sea-bird,  stayed  by  hindering  hands 

ashore, 
Droops  wing,  her  head  yet  holden  toward 

the  sea, 
Sore-sick  to  burst  her  bonds  and  waveward 

soar, 
So  yearns  my  soul  to  thee. 

58 


A  SONG  OF  MEETING 

If  so  that  thou  but  me-ward  turn  as  well, 
Love-longing   like   to    mine  within    thy 

heart, 
There  ''s  neither  peace  of  heaven,  nor  pain 

of  hell 
Shall  keep  us  twain  apart. 


Ill 
A  SONG  OF  MEETING 

In  the  dales  of  a  distant  valley, 
Where  never  a  word  is  said, 

Where  never  a  wind  makes  sally, 
And  memory  e'en  is  dead; 

At  a  time  when  the  light  is  breaking 
Over  the  dawn-touched  deep, 

At  a  time  when  the  dreams  of  waking 
Are  mixed  with  the  dreams  of  sleep  j 

With  the  face  and  the  old  behavior 

I  loved  in  the  long  ago, 
When  you  were  my  soul  and  savior, 

With  the  face  and  the  form  I  know  — 


59 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

'T  is  thus,  dear  heart,  I  would  greet  you 
Through  tears  of  a  joy  divine; 

""T  is  thus,  dear  heart,  I  would  meet  you, 
And  make  you  forever  mine! 


IV 
SONG  OF  THE  SEA 

The  song  of  the  sea  was  an  ancient  song 
In  the  days  when  the  earth  was  young; 
The  waves  were  gossiping  loud  and  long 
Ere  mortals  had  found  a  tongue; 
The  heart  of  the  waves  with  wrath  was  wrung 
Or  soothed  to  a  siren  strain, 
As  they  tossed  the  primitive  isles  among 
Or  slept  in  the  open  main. 
Such  was  the  song  and  its  changes  free, 
Such  was  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  took  a  human  tone 

In  the  days  of  the  coming  of  man; 

A  mournfuller  meaning  swelled  her  moan, 

And  fiercer  her  riots  ran; 

Because  that  her  stately  voice  began 

To  speak  of  our  human  woes; 

60 


SONG  OF  THE  SEA 

With  music  mighty  to  grasp  and  span 
Life's  tale  and  its  passion-throes. 
Such  was  the  song  as  it  grew  to  be, 
Such  was  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  was  a  hungry  sound 

As  the  human  years  unrolled; 

For  the  notes  were  hoarse  with  the  doomed 

and  drowned, 

Or  choked  with  a  shipwreck's  gold: 
Till  it  seemed  no  dirge  above  the  mould 
So  sorry  a  story  said 
As  the  midnight  cry  of  the  waters  old 
Calling  above  their  dead. 
Such  is  the  song  and  its  threnody, 
Such  is  the  song  of  the  sea. 

The  song  of  the  sea  is  a  wondrous  lay, 

For  it  mirrors  human  life; 

It  is  grave  and  great  as  the  judgment  day, 

It  is  torn  with  the  thought  of  strife; 

Yet  under  the  stars  it  is  smooth  and  rife 

With  love-lights  everywhere, 

When  the  sky  has  taken  the  deep  to  wife 

And  their  wedding-day  is  fair  — 

Such  is  the  ocean's  mystery, 

Such  is  the  song  of  the  sea. 

61 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


HEARTH  SONG 

Before  the  hearth  I  dream  of  many  things. 

The  red-eyed  embers  glow,  dull  down, 

expire; 
An  evanescent  life  in  each,  that  brings 

Sad  omens  for  the  Life  that  men  desire. 

Will  it  not  end  in  ashes,  like  the  fire  ? 

Not  death  is  here,  but  change!    Each  spark 

that  gleams 
Is  pent-up  sunlight,  and  the  back-log's 

tune 
Repeats     the     music     of    the   woods     and 

streams. 

Bend  low  and  listen;  it  is  Nature's  rune, 
Singing  of  summer,  chanting  soft  of  June. 


62 


DAYBREAK  SONG 

VI 
DAYBREAK  SONG 

Full    sweet    is    the    night    locust-haunted, 

moon-kist, 
The    noon-tide,     strong    creature    and 

splendid; 

But  dawn  has  a  loveliness  blended 
Of  health  and  keen    hope  and  a  puissant 

delight 

In  living,  that  shameth  the  languor  of  night 
Or  stress  of  the  noon  with  its  urgence  and 

plight. 

And  so,  when  I  list, 

Shaking  slumber  and   sleep  from    mine 

eyes, 

Soft  somnolence  scorning, 
I  love  to  be  under  the  skies, 
I  long  to  be  up  and  away, 
I  lust  to  be  out  with  the  day 
At  light's  first  forewarning, 
When  the  winds  are  all  whist 
And  the  magic  of  mist 
Is  over  the  shine  of  the  morning! 

63 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

VII 
A  SONG  OF  LIFE 

A  song,  boys,  a  song! 
Life  is  young  yet, 
Love  has  tongue  yet; 
Why  should  Life  and  Love  go  wrong  ? 
Come,  boys,  a  song! 

A  song,  boys,  a  song! 
Life  'sat  flush  still, 
Love's  ablush  still; 

What  though  cares  and  curses  throng  ? 
Come,  boys,  a  song! 

A  song,  boys,  a  song! 
Life  is  gray  now, 
Love  's  away  now, 
We  are  left  to  limp  along; 
Still,  boys,  a  song! 


64 


A  SONG  OF  LIFE 

A  song,  boys,  a  song! 

Death  is  here  soon, 

Death  will  cheer  soon, 

Death  is  nigh,  and  Love  is  strong; 

So,  boys,  a  song! 


SONNETS 


THE  SPIRIT 

If  so  there  were  a  spirit,  poised  in  peace 
Above  all  wind-gusts  in  the  heavens  high, 
And  he  might  mark  us  mortals  laugh  or 

cry, 

According  as  the  gloomed  clouds  increase 
Or  suns  beguile  them  into  golden  fleece; 
Methinks  he  would  be  like  to  smile,  to  sigh 
(So  placid  he,  so  far  within  the  sky, 
And  knowing  God's  great  love  can  never 

cease), 

That  we  the  puny  yet  the  prideful  race 
Must  change  as  skies  change;  be  like  babes 

that  fret 
Whenso  their  yearning  mother  moves  her 

breast 

To  ease  her  mothering,  or  turns  her  face 
Aside  a  moment,  reaching  out  to  get 
Some  wrapping  soft  to  lull  their  limbs  to 

rest. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


AN  UNPRAISED  PICTURE 

I  saw  a  picture  once  by  Angelo. 

"Unfinished,"    said   the    critic;   "done 

in  youth; " 
And  that  was  all,  no  thought  of  praise, 

forsooth ! 

He  was  informed,  and  doubtless  it  was  so. 
And  yet,  I  let  an  hour  of  dreaming  go 
The  way  of  all  time,  touched  to  tears  and 

ruth, 
Passion  and  joy,  the  prick  of  conscience' 

tooth, 
Before  that  careworn  Christ's  divine,  soft 

glow. 
The  painter's  yearning  with  an  unsure 

hand 

Had  moved  me  more  than  might  his  mas 
ter  days; 

He  seemed  to  speak  like  one  whose  Mec 
ca-land 
Is   first   beheld,  though   faint  and   far  the 

ways; 

Who  may  not  then  his  shaken  voice  com 
mand, 

Yet  trembles  forth  a  word  of  prayer  and 
praise. 

70 


WOOD  WITCHERY 


WOOD  WITCHERY 

The  way  ran  under  boughs  of  checkered 

green 
Where  live  things  stirred,  and  sweet  lights 

glinted  through, 
And  airs  were  cool    and    scented;  well  I 

knew 
It    was     New     England,     but    this    fresh 

demesne 

Was  full  of  fabled  folk  no  eye  hath  seen 
Yet  every  poet's  heart  must  take  for  true: 
Dryads  and  hamadryads,  satyrs  too, 
And  fountain-nymphs,  and  trolls  of  freakish 

mien. 

Then,  like  a  flash,  the  oneness  of  the  world 
Broke  on  me;  mythland  was  not  here  or 

there, 

But  wheresoe'er  shy  Fancy  had  unfurled 
Her  wings,  perceiving  Nature  young  and 

fair; 

New  England  spelt  but  Arcady,  the  same 
Unaging  beauty  by  another  name. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


DESERTED  FARMS 

Aforetime,  fruitfulness  and  tilth  were  here. 

Snug  granges  held  the  harvests,  acres  broad 

Were  rich  in  grass  and  grain}  the  good- 
man's  board 

Groaned  with  its  plenty,  and  a  rustic  cheer 

Sat  in  the  homesteads  sprinkled  far  and  near. 

To-day,  prosperity  no  more  is  lord; 

Choked  wells,  roofs  fallen,  weed-grown 
ways  afford 

A  vision  desolate  and  a  memory  drear. 

Sons  of  New  England,  your  ingratitude, 

Like  that  once  shown  to  tragic  Lear,  is 
base! 

For  now  ye  scorn  the  teeming  mother- 
breast 

That  gave  you  strength,  and  in  a  vagrant 
mood 

Will  turn  to  alien  meadows  of  the  West, 

Or  toward  the  peopled  cities  set  your  face. 


REALISTS 


REALISTS 

They  peer  at  life  with  analytic  eyes, 
And  paint  so  patiently  each  several  scene, 
You  vow  that  naught  is  wrong,  each  shade 

and  sheen 

Set  on  the  canvas  in  full  faithful  wise. 
And  yet  it  looks  amiss,  the  picture  lies  — 
You  hardly  know  wherein  or  how,  I  ween, 
For    skies    are  blue,  the  summer  grass  is 

green, 
The  men  and  women  walk  of  proper  size. 

Once  I  beheld  a  group  of  sorrowing  men 
Who  bent  above  the  death-mask  of  a  maid. 
The  lines  of  the  loved  face  were  doubtless 

there, 

But  as  each  looked  he  started  back  again 
As  from  a  stranger,  chilled  and  half  afraid. 
Her  features  lacked  the  soul  had  made  them 

fair. 


73 


BLANK  VERSE 


IN  SLEEP 

Not    drowsihood    and    dreams    and    mere 

idless, 

Nor  yet  the  blessedness  of  strength  regained, 
Alone  are  in  what  men  call  sleep.      The 

past, 

My  unsuspected  soul,  my  parents1  voice, 
The  generations  of  my  forebears,  yea, 
The  very  will  of  God  himself  are  there 
And  potent-working:   so  that  many  a  doubt 
Is  wiped  away  at  daylight,  many  a  soil 
Washed  cleanlier,  many  a  puzzle  riddled 

plain. 

Strong,  silent  forces  push  my  puny  self 
Towards  unguessed  issues,  and  the  waking 

man 
Rises  a  Greatheart  where  a  Slave  lay  down. 


THE  LOST  ATLANTIS 

Deep  in  our    soul-seas    there    are    sunken 

hopes 
That    once    gleamed    marble-white,    pure 

shafts  of  stone 
With  carvings  thereupon  of  cryptic  joy 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

Long,   long  forgotten;  streets  submerged, 

that  erst 

Were  brave  with  every  sign  of  festal  life; 
And  scented  groves  that  stand  for  dreams; 

and  near, 

Great  towers  stately  builded,  palaces 
For   pleasure-making  when    the    time  was 

May; 

All  dim  in  tangles  of  mermaiden's  hair. 
The  traffic  of  a  world  of  elder  time 
Choked  potently  by  water,  and  engirt 
With     grewsome    shapes    and    growths 

beneath  the  brine. 

Deep     in  our    soul-seas,    drowned;    while 

present  waves 

Glide  smoothly  o'er  the  lost  Atlantis,  once 
So  regnant  in  our  Past;  and  summer  sails 
Fleet   onward  toward  new  Western  isles, 

since  man 
Must   ever  gear  him  for  new  quests,  and 

leave 
The  mute  memorials  of  the  lapsed  years. 


SPIRITS  OF  SUMMER 


SPIRITS  OF  SUMMER 

Three  creatures  of  the  summer  are  to  me 
Of  spirit  import.    First,  the  milkweed  dun, 
Diaphanous,  most  insubstantial  wight 
Of  plantkind  —  satin  seeds  in  silken  sheaths 
The  winter  long,  a  memory,  not  a  flower 
That  reckons  bloom  and  fragrance  as  its 

due. 
Then  the  white  birch,  a  ghost  amongst  its 

mates 

I'  the  forest,  glimmering-boled  and  phan 
tom-tall, 
Crowned   with   a    largess    of  most  glossy 

leaves. 
And  last  the  thrush,  wood-hid,  aloof  and 

lone, 

A  disembodied  voice,  a  phantasy, 
That    shapes    the    plastic    soul   to  higher 

things. 

Three  summer  creatures  good  to  know  and 
love. 


79 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


MORTIS  DIGNITAS 

Here  lies  a  common  man.  His  horny  hands, 
Crossed  meekly  as  a  maid's  upon  his  breast, 
Show  marks  of  toil,  and  by  his  general 

dress 

You  judge  him  to  have  been  an  artisan 
Doubtless,  could  all  his  life  be  written  out, 
The  story  would  not  thrill  nor  start  a  tear; 
He  worked,  laughed,  loved,  and  suffered  in 

his  time, 
And  now  rests  peacefully,  with  upturned 

face 

Whose  look  belies  all  struggle  in  the  past. 
A  homely  tale:  yet,  trust  me,  I  have  seen 
The  greatest  of  the  earth  go  stately  by, 
While  shouting  multitudes  beset  the  way, 
With  less  of  awe.     The  gap  between  a  king 
And  me,  a  nameless  gazer  in  the  crowd, 
Seemed  not  so  wide  as  that  which  stretches 

now 

Betwixt  us  two,  this  dead  one  and  myself. 
Untitled,  dumb,  and  deedless,  yet  he  is 
Transfigured  by  a  touch  from  out  the  skies 
Until  he  wears,  with  all-unconscious  grace, 
The  strange  and  sudden  Dignity  of  Death. 

80 


VOICES 


VOICES 

A  man  died  yesternight.    To-day  the  town 
Makes  mention  of  his  taking-off,  and  sums 
His  virtues  and  his  failings.     On  the  street, 
Midst  many  batterings  and  lures  of  trade, 
In   homes  where   he  was    known,   in    busy 

marts, 

Or  public  places  where  the  commonweal 
Gathers  the  town-folk:  up  and  down  his 

name 

Is  spoke  of,  in  as  various  ways  of  speech 
As  are  the  voices  various  sounding  it: 
Gruff-throated  bass,  shrill  treble  of  old  age, 
Soft  sibilancy  of  a  woman's  tongue, 
Or  reed-like  utterance  of  a  little  child. 
Thus  one,  his  mate  in  business:   "Ah!  a 

shrewd 
Dry  head  was  that;  much  loss  to  us,  much 

loss. 

And  as  for  heart  "  —  wise  shrug  of  shoul 
ders  now  — 
"Well,    'tis    but     little    quoted    here    on 

'change." 

Another,  who  had  summered  with  him  once 
In  leisure-time:  "A  right  good  fellow  gone! 

81 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

'T  is  true,  he  liked  his  ease;  but  who  does 

not? 

For  me,  give  me  the  man  that  Horace  loved, 
Who  deemed  it  wise  to  fool  when   season 
able.'1 

A  tiny  one  who  oft  had  found  great  store 
Of  sweetmeats  in  his  hand,  and,  prized  far 

less, 

Great  store  of  tenderness  within  his  heart: 
"Oh,  won't  he  come  and  see  us  any  more?  " 
His  surpliced  pastor,  bound  to  save  his  soul, 
Balanced  a  bit  by  inconsistencies 
He  thought  he  saw,  in  private  to  his  wife: 
"Alas,  poor  soul!  if  only  he  had  grasped 
That  matter  of  the  creed,  and  made  us  sure! 
But  then  —  his  heart  was  right,  and  God  is 

good.'1 

And  one,  a  woman,  who  had  found  his  arms 
An    all-protecting    shelter    through     long 

years, 
Said  naught,  but  kissed  the  tokens  he  had 

left, 

And  dreamt  of  heaven  for  his  sake  alone. 
Meanwhile,  what  was  this   man,  and  what 

his  place  ? 

You  ask,  confused  by  all  this  Babel  talk 
Of  here  and  yonder,  from  his  fellow-men. 

82 


MASKS 

I  am  as  ignorant  as  any  one 

Whose  speech  you  heard,  and  yet  I  loved 

him  well. 
Nay,    ask    me    not:    ask    only    God.    He 

knows. 

MASKS 

A  certain  friend  of  mine,  whose  daily  praise 
Was  in  the  mouths  of  men,  once  startled 

me 

By  what  he  said  when  I,  like  all  the  rest, 
Cried  up  his  virtues  and  his  blameless  life. 
In  this  wise  speaking:    "Stop!   you   mad 
den  me. 

You  and  the  crowd  but  look  to  what  I  do, 
And  when  you  find  me  righteous  and  the 

law 

Ne'er  broken,  why,  you  make  a  loud  ac 
claim, 

Holding  me  guiltless  and  a  perfect  man. 
But  tell  me,  friend,  whether  of  two  is  best: 
To  let  a  spite  eat  slowly  to  the  heart, 
Making  no  outward  sign,  rebelling  not, 
Or,  by  an  honest  spurt  of  wrathy  blood, 
To  mass  the  hate  of  many  brooding  years 
Into  one  right-arm  blow,  and  so  be  quits  ? 

83 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 

• 

To  speak  in  terms  immaculate  and  nice, 
Yet  curse  in  speechless  thoughts,  to  clean 

forswear 

All  lewdness,  yet  go  lusting  secretly  ? 
To   render  weight  for  weight,    yet  grudge 

the  coin 

Flung  to  a  beggar-lad  —  in  brief,  to  find 
My  soul  the  nesting-place  for  divers  sins, 
And  still  walk  on  in  smug  and  seemly 

guise  ? 

I  tell  thee,  there  are  times  I  hear  a  voice 
Say  very  clear,  though  softly,  in  myself: 
4 'T  were  better  if  you  sinned  right  openly 
Than  let  the  vileness  stew  within  your  mind 
And  pass  your  properness  upon  the  world, 
Knowing  the  while  the  arch  hypocrisy 
That  takes  the  name  of  angel  where,  in 
stead, 

Devil  hits  nearer  to  the  truth.'      Ah  me!  " 
Here,    staying   words,    he    sighed    a    heavy 

sigh; 

And,  musing,  on  I  strolled,  debating  how 
Mere  masking  tricks  us  all,  and  somewhat 

sad 

To  learn  the  inner  history  of  one 
Whose  common  title  with  the  world  was 

saint. 

84 


THE  BLEAK  O'  THE  YEAR 


THE  BLEAK  O'  THE  YEAR 

There  is  a  time  of  subtle  browns,  and  grays 
That    run    to    silverings,    and    tremulous 

greens, 
And    russet    tints,   and    ash-pale   pools  of 

leaves; 

Of  ghostly  mosses  and  elusive  grass 
That's  neither  lush  nor  dead;    of  naked 

trees 

Ineffably  harmonious  with  the  sky 
That   stretches  vast  and  neutral,  tone  on 

tone, 

Not  to  be  called  a  color,  but  a  thought. 
To  some  this  is  a  barren  time,  a  sleep 
Between  the  winter  and  the  spell  of  spring; 
To  me  it  is  the  heart's  own  time  and  tide, 
Being  hidden  from  the  heedless  eye    that 

lusts 
For    flaring    lights    and    sunset    dyes,    yet 

charged 
With     secrets     rare,    and     blendings     into 

dreams, 

And  ecstasies  divine  that  shadow  forth 
A  mystery,  the  Selah  of  the  Soul. 


DUMB  IN  JUNE 


EARLY  WINTER 

Brown  grass,  picked  out  with  red  of  bushes, 

tones 

Of  silver  on  the  fences;   russet,  bronze, 
The   leaves   of  oaks   and    beeches;    mystic 

black 

Where  pools  of  water  lie,  and  edged  there- 
round 

The  ghostly  glamour  of  the  shallow  ice. 
Above,  a  gray-white  monody  of  sky, 
And  all  between  the  heaven  and  earth  a 

mist 

Of  fine,  fast-falling  snow  that  makes  a  veil 
Wherethrough  you  see  a  mystery,  a  blend 
Of  winter  colors  to  a  perfect  whole 
That  lifts  the  heart  with  beauty,  does  atone 
For  long-withholden  loveliness  of  June. 


THE  INAPPRECIABLE  YEARS 


THE  INAPPRECIABLE  YEARS 

Like   snow   that   falls   on  water   seem   the 

years, 

The  inappreciable  years  that  melt  away 
Into  Time's  welter  —  yet,  unseen,  the  tide 
Is  swelled  thereby,  and  haply  some  good 

ship 

Floated  across  the  sand-bars  into  port 
That  means  smooth  haven  and  a  sight  of 

home. 


THE  ULTIMATE 

When,  of  old,  a  chief  died  in  the  North, 
Then  they  wrapt  him  close  in  fighting  dress, 
Laid  his  life-worn  weapons  him  beside, 
And,  with  stern  and  silent  tenderness, 
In  a  boat  wide-bosomed  on  the  tide, 
Placed  his  death-cold    body,   pushed    him 

forth 

Thence  to  drift  at  will  of  wind  and  fate, 
Till  at  last  he  found  the  Ultimate. 

Amply  weaponed  so,  with  courage  grim, 
Prone  along  my  death-boat,  like  to  him 
I  would  day-long  rock  and  roam  and  wait 
For  a  subtile  turn  o'  tide  and  sea, 
For  a  gust  o1  wind  to  break  and  blow 
Love  and  land  and  life  away  from  me; 
Favoring,  until  I  glide  and  go 
Past  each  bourn  and  billow-boundary 
To  the  waters  lying  round  my  fate, 
To  the  windless,  unoared  Ultimate. 


THE  FIRST  EDITION  OF  THIS  BOOK  CONSISTS 
OF  FIVE  HUNDRED  COPIES  WITH  THIRTY- 
FIVE  ADDITIONAL  COPIES  ON  HAND-MADE 
PAPER  PRINTED  DURING  NOVEMBER  1895  BY 
THE  EVERETT  PRESS  BOSTON 


§c      C 

^s  I 

H 

CO      CO         2O 

cr 

cl 

R               -< 

5* 

2J 

OCO     CD         C 

d^f    en      en 

f  * 

o     c« 

i 

^    ho      m 

*-  s 

M 

M          ^ 

£C^ 

d    3 

§  5 

HH 

1 

°O* 

C- 

W    p. 

_    o 
§   ^ 

&>^» 
P^ 

«s 

60 

_      O 

w    ^ 

-  3 

M  F* 

^ 

B    < 

t"^      ^ 

a 

g-? 

5? 

1  1 

"1 

£ 
C 

i  a 

w 

£  ' 

i 

• 

K- 

Burton,   R 

'     -±TT 


M40792 


953 

BS74 
d 


R40792 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


